There are peep holes to spy,
And there are things that do.
The hairs on the back of your neck know,
They stand up,
What is watching you?
They are called the kry.
Spindly sharp nails upon their long fingers,
Serrated teeth with pronged poisonous fangs.
Their eyes are bulging,
A side-effect from peering through the cracks,
And spying upon us in our daily lives.
The kry are always hungry.
One child is not enough,
Two adults are tough to chew,
And three, make a delicious stew.
The kry found a way to fall through the cracks.
Pull apart our world and theirs,
Simply to get through and eat an exotic meat.
We are a delicacy to them.
Some like to bite off our heads,
Some like to smear us on bread,
With crunchy pieces,
Fragment of bones,
And their hungry increases…
But there is one way to stop them,
One way to scare them away.
Skinned to the bone,
And tie them together with twine,
In the shape of a diagonal cross,
Place them upon the wall,
Close or near to your bed,
And it will raise past spirits,
The dead will come and protect.
There is one thing the kry cannot stand,
Ghostly apparitions of those passed,
And our ancestors will come to our aid,
To scare the kry from their grave.